


Lips Honey Swollen

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: Big Time Rocker, F/M, M/M, sex in the janitor's closet, superspy Mila Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kendall’s known that Logan has a kink for role play since they were eight, and his favorite game involved dressing up in a pink tutu and a tiara. Kendall never minded; what Logan wanted to do with his time was totally his business. He did draw the line when Logan tried to make him wear the tutu, but whatever. The point is, when Camille comes to Kendall and says, “Logan’s driving me insane. Fix it,” he’s not really surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lips Honey Swollen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sick_Banjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sick_Banjo/gifts).



> This is a crazy-late belated present for jblostfan16, who prompted me DIRECTLY after BTRocker for a spy!Camille/Kendall/Logan threesome. I started writing it and promptly got distracted by everything else. Somehow in the entire era of time since that episode aired, this thing morphed into straight up Kendall/Camille (I think I'm just scared to write a legit threesome, man), for which I apologize. I apologize so hard that I added James and Logan making out at the end of this. Also, I think this is the first time I've EVER written legitimate het smut, so, uh. It might suck? DON'T HATE ME.

Yeah, so, Kendall’s sort of known that Logan’s had a kink for role play since they were eight, and his favorite game involved dressing up in a pink tutu and a tiara. Kendall never minded; what Logan wanted to do with his time was totally his business.  
  
He did draw the line when Logan tried to make him wear the tutu, but whatever. The point is, when Camille comes to Kendall and says,  
“Logan’s driving me insane. Fix it,” he’s not really surprised.  
  
He is, however, _not interested_.  
  
“How am I supposed to do that? I have to prove to the new girl that we _rock_.”  
  
Camille frowns. “You’re in a boy band. Deal with it.”  
  
“Boy bands can rock.”  
  
“Oh, no, sweetie. They really can’t.” Camille reaches out and pats his cheek. Kendall resists the urge to flinch away. Camille’s hands usually only touch him when they’re like, weaponized.  
  
Not very apologetically, Kendall says, “Look, I’d love to help. But I can’t.” He points to the guitar resting against the couch. “I need to learn an amazing song on that in the next two hours.”  
  
Camille blinks at the instrument. “You play?”  
  
“Guitar Dude’s been teaching me.” Kendall ducks his head. “I’m trying to become a legitimate musician.”  
  
“Kendall. You are a legitimate musician.” Camille rolls her eyes. She doesn’t look like she plans on backing out of the doorframe and leaving anytime soon.  
  
Kendall admits, “It, uh, doesn’t always feel like that. I just want to be on even ground with the rest of the industry, alright? I’m not- I’m used to being the best. This whole underdog thing, it’s new.”  
  
“Alright. I’ll help you deal with your existential crisis later, but right now I really need you to help me get Logan to _back off_.”  
  
“How am I supposed to do that?”  
  
“If I knew, I wouldn’t need your help, now would I?” Camille sets her tiny hands on her tiny hips and gives Kendall a very intimidating glare.  
“Logan keeps forcing me to dress up as Mila the Spy.”  
  
“So don’t do it.”  
  
“Have you met your friend? He’s irritatingly persistent.”  
  
“He’s also pint sized. Just slap him across the face and be done with it,” Kendall says, already trying to figure out if he can play something really _hard rock_. Maybe Metallica. He strokes the guitar, looking for inspiration.  
  
“He _likes_ being slapped if I’m wearing a trench coat,” Camille says irritably. “It’s beyond bizarre.”  
  
Kendall adds BDSM to his mental list of Logan’s kinks. It is quite a long a list.  
  
“Look, you’re dressing up as a spy, right? So do what real spies do. Get some dirt on Logan and use it to blackmail him into leaving you alone.”  
  
“That’s…not a bad idea,” Camille agrees, glossy lips curving into a grin. “It’s better than mine, anyway.” Then she shoves something in front of his face. “Here, wear this.”  
  
Kendall dangles the thing she hands him delicately over the couch before dropping it deliberately. “I don’t want to wear this. I don’t like hats.”  
  
“That’s a lie. Logan showed me your beanie collection.”  
  
“Beanies aren’t hats. They’re…covering. For your head.”  
  
“Also known as hats.” Camille smirks. “Wear the fedora. Wear it. It will make you feel so much more legitimate.”  
  
“Do I _want_ to feel like a legitimate spy?”  
  
“Oh, absolutely. You might want to try out an accent, too.”  
  
“Think I’ll pass on that one.”  
  
“Your loss. Now.” Camille hitches up one of her stockings.  
  
“Is that a- do you have a holster under there?” Kendall asks, a teensy bit entranced. Camille has very pretty thighs.  
  
She flashes him a sultry grin. “Yep.”  
  
“What do you carry in that-“  
  
“Cellphone,” she explains, grabbing the offending item and brandishing it around.  
  
“Oh, good. I was worried that- what was your original idea, anyway?” Kendall asks, because Camille is scary and Logan is one of his best  
friends. Kendall should probably make sure he comes out the other end of their scheming, you know, _alive_.  
  
Camille tilts her head to the side, considering. Finally she says solemnly, “Better that you don’t know.”  
  
Kendall barely suppresses a shudder.  
  
“So the real dilemma here is, how do we find dirt? Logan’s one of those squeaky clean sorts,” Camille wrinkles her nose, like she’s actually offended by boy scouts and do-gooders and people who help little old ladies across streets.  
  
Kendall knows that can’t be true. His acquaintance with the girl is limited to a few slap-happy schemes and some awkward double-dates with her, Logan, and Jo, but for the most part, she’s a sweetheart. It’s only as Camille begins outlining her four point plan to coerce Logan into confessing all his shady past sins that Kendall realizes she’s using an accent. Apparently, it’s spy-time.  
  
He tunes back in just as Camille says, “-I’m thinking we lure Logan into the hall, and then, when he steps in the bear trap-“  
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up. Bear trap?” Kendall’s voice spikes up a few decibels. Logan’s taste in girls is officially _dangerous_. “I never signed on to amputate my best friend’s leg.”  
  
“We won’t have to amputate,” Camille protests breezily, voice swinging back to normal. “He might need stitches. One or two.”  
  
“And you just have a bear trap laying around?”  
  
Camille shrugs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Kendall can’t help but notice how shiny it is. “They’re effective.”  
  
“That might be true, but uh, yeah, I’m just really not comfortable with plans that involve blood.”  
  
“Baby. You won’t wear a fedora, you won’t let me use my bear trap, and you’ll probably say no to the chainsaw, too.” She pouts. “…remind me why I want your help?”  
  
“Presumably so someone will keep you out of jail,” Kendall replies in a casual, if not somewhat appalled voice. “We can find some blackmail on Loginator without, you know, causing him bodily harm.”  
  
“I’m not sure if I believe that.”  
  
“You terrify me.” Camille bats her eyelashes. Kendall scowls. “No, seriously.”  
  
Their first plan involves an iguana and hedge shears. It does not go over as planned.  
  
Maybe they shouldn’t have tried it in such a public area. Logan, avoiding the trap with oblivious ease, approaches Camille with a mixture of hopefulness and over-eager interest that Kendall recognizes from all those times he had a sparkly tutu waved in his face. Camille narrowly escapes, throwing a heavily accented Russian expletive behind her as she bolts.  
  
Oh well, Kendall is firmly of the school of if at first you don’t succeed. He concocts a complicated scheme that involves pinning Logan in the air vents, and brooks no arguments when Camille asks what they need the orangutan for.  
  
“He’s not an orangutan, he’s a chimpanzee,” Kendall says, patting the monkey’s head. “And his name is Lolo.”  
  
Stealing him from Griffin’s tender care after their previous attempt had been a bitch and a half, especially without Logan to do his special-sheik impersonation.  
  
“How can you tell?” Camille eyes the poor animal, who appears rather put out about this whole kidnapping shebang. “He looks like all the other monkeys I’ve seen.”  
  
Kendall claps his hands over Lolo’s ears. “Don’t hurt his feelings or he might not help.”  
  
Lolo has better hearing than Kendall gave him credit for. That plan goes out the window, with a nice severance package that includes being berated by Griffin for roughly half an hour.  
  
“Does he really hunt humans?” Camille inquires curiously, without a hint of fear in her voice.  
  
Kendall decides that her balls are way bigger than his. “It’s better not to ask. I think we need a simpler plan.”  
  
“Simpler? If I wanted simple, I would have asked someone with no imagination. Like my dad.” Camille wrinkles her nose.  
  
“No, I’m serious. Look, we set a stripped down trap, we catch Logan, we snap some pictures of him making love to his abacus, and I can get back to proving to Lucy how hardcore I- uh, we are.”  
  
Blessedly, Camille decides not to comment on how hardcore Kendall is, because Kendall suspects she’d slot him in the same category as puppies and rainbows, and his ego has been hit enough times today.  
  
“How are you going to get him naked with his abacus?”  
  
“I don’t know, hold it in front of him?” Kendall shrugs, because Logan has an unnatural affection for all things number related. Kendall swears he’s seen suspicious stains on some of his text books. “We’ll think of something.”  
  
“Alright,” she agrees. And then she begins shucking her panties.  
  
“Now what are you doing?!” Kendall’s scandalized voice is pretty pitchy, and it breaks in a way he hasn’t heard since he was fifteen. But that’s really to be expected in the face of such trauma, because yeah, there are the long, milky lines of Camille’s thighs, disappearing up into her hemline as a tiny scrap of lace comes down, down, down.  
  
“I thought of something.” Camille pauses, her ass wiggling in the air, and okay, that trench coat is way, way too short. “What does it look like I’m doing? Taking off my underwear.”  
  
“But why?” Kendall yelps, flustered. There are entirely too many bad thoughts swimming in his head right now.  
  
“To throw him off the trail, obviously.”  
  
She cocks her head, like that was a totally self-evident answer, which it is so not. As Camille delicately slips her panties past her ankles, he demands, “Can’t you just leave the wig?”  
  
She snorts. “Don’t be such a prude.”  
  
Uh, offensive. He bristles. “I’m not a prude.”  
  
Camille dangles her undergarments on one finger. “Fine, you’re sexually conservative, and that’s okay. I guess. If you’re into that.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound any less insulting,” he retorts, the bridge of his nose burning bright pink. It’s probably not helping his case. “Just- stay dressed. We can do this without you being naked.”  
  
“I’m still dressed,” Camille argues. “And I can’t think of anything more likely to distract Logan from the real trap than the scent of…me.”  
  
And now Kendall has a really graphic visual of Logan sniffing Camille’s panties stuck in his head, possibly for all eternity. “You- I- why-“  
  
Brandishing her underwear perilously close to Kendall’s face, Camille asks, “It’s distracting you, isn’t it?”  
  
This cannot be allowed to stand. Kendall will not falter in the face of partial nudity, especially when it’s not even nudity he can see. “I’m impervious to distraction. I’ve got a mission.”  
  
“I know, I know, schooling the new girl, etcetera, etcetera.” Camille’s beginning to look bored with that line of conversation already. She doubts his edginess. Kendall can tell.  
  
“I’m a rock god.”  
  
“You sing love songs and do dance moves like this.” Obligingly, she demonstrates, the hem of her trench flapping out and okay, that is a little distracting. A tiny bit. A smidge.  
  
Kendall says, “It’s actually like this,” and executes the double step crossover arm pump move he learned from Mr. X about a day ago. He suspects he hasn’t fully mastered it, because Camille snickers beneath her breath.  
  
“Right, exactly. I’ve never seen Babylace pull that move.” Irritated, Kendall crowds into Camille’s space, completely failing to intimidate her.  
That’s alright. Off the ice he’s pretty content with being about as fierce as Winnie-the-Pooh. It still smarts his pride when she tweaks his nose and says, “Give it up, Knight.”  
  
Icily, Kendall says, “It sounds like you’re asking me to surrender.”  
  
Camille gasps. “Perish the thought.”  
  
“Mockery is unkind.”  
  
“You’re really wound up about this,” she replies, less teasing now. Abruptly, Camille’s dark eyes have turned clever and cutting. “Think maybe you’re clinging to this rock and roll fantasy because you never live out any of your _other_ fantasies?”  
  
“What other fantasies?” Kendall asks, dismissive of the whole idea. He doesn’t like being psychoanalyzed by anyone other than his mother or  
Katie, and even then. If he wanted to get to know himself better, he’d see a therapist, but he doesn’t, because introspection is for people who don’t get shit done.  
  
Camille shrugs, the coat slipping to show the jut of her clavicle. She’s got delicate bones for a girl who is so damned strong. “I dunno. What’s the last crazy thing you did?”  
  
“Today?”  
  
“Correction.” Her eyebrow arches. Her lips curve. She’s really close, which is Kendall’s own fault, but still. “What’s the last crazy thing you did that didn’t involve the guys, or your sister, or Gustavo?”  
  
Kendall’s drawing a blank. “Who cares? I don’t have to get into trouble _all_ the time.”  
  
Camille says, “But the best things happen when you misbehave.”  
  
She stands on her tippy toes, and Kendall can’t figure out why she’s trying to gain a few inches on him until her arms loop around his neck.  
Even then, his thinking is fractured. Camille is pretty, and he can taste her breath on his lips. His brain is still playing catch up as she slants forward.  
  
Her mouth against his is hot, gentle, and a complete surprise.  
  
Kendall recoils immediately. “What. The. Heck?”  
  
“Wow. You really need to loosen up,” is Camille’s nonchalant response. She kisses him again, and this time Kendall has the presence of mind to recognize that he hasn’t actually had this much attention focused on his mouth in a while. It’s really nice. Unexpected, yeah, but girls are forever catching him off guard.  
  
He moves his lips against Camille’s without meaning to, at first with a hesitance that speaks volumes about how long it’s been, and then with more certainty. Kendall’s been told he’s a pretty great kisser. Camille’s not exactly an amateur at it either. It gets deeper, wetter. Her tongue touches Kendall’s, slides slick against his teeth.  
  
He settles his hands against her waist, her hips tiny beneath his palms.  
  
Kendall loses track of what he’s supposed to be doing. He knows that this is definitely not it, but that’s hard to keep in mind when Camille moans into his mouth. Urgency flares beneath his ribcage, Kendall lifting her against him, and Camille indulgently going with it, wrapping her legs around him so that she has better leverage. And that, oh, that is a really bad idea.  
  
She melts against him, her legs wrapped tight against his waist. There is a damp spot between her thighs that leeches wet against Kendall’s jeans. It inspires a kind of honeyed sweetness he can feel in his bones, heat spiking in his belly. He manages to mumble, “This is such a bad idea.”  
  
Camille gasps for breath. “God, you are prissier than James. When you see something you like, take it.” She tilts her head to the side and then adds, “You know, after asking and making sure it’s all consensual.”  
  
“You don’t consensually slap me,” Kendall murmurs, kissing lower, lips following the graceful arc of her throat.  
  
Camille’s head thunks back against the wall. “That’s different.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“It’s work related, and sweetie, this is all pleasure.” She arches her hips against him, once again reminding Kendall that hey, she isn’t wearing any underwear.  
  
Also relevant: they’re in the middle of the hallway. Bearing that in mind, Kendall walks her backwards, to the nearest door. He thinks it’s a janitorial closet. If it’s someone’s apartment, they might just have to suffer through a show.  
  
Luckily, Kendall’s instincts and internal map of the Palmwoods are as finely tuned as he’d hoped. The two of them stumble back into a cloud of disinfectant and bleach that should probably do something to dull the urgent pulse of Kendall’s blood, but Camille presses her lips against  
Kendall’s throat, sucks his skin sweet, and then less tender, with the scrape of teeth.  
  
She mumbles, “Oh, this is classy. You really know how to treat a girl right.”  
  
“We could go to your place,” he suggests lowly.  
  
Camille snorts, lathing over the raised edges of his brand new hickey with her tongue. She says, “Not unless you want my dad to skin you alive.”  
  
“He’s not in the CIA, is he?” Kendall asks fearfully, visions of Jo’s scary father doing a jig in his head.  
  
Camille rumbles with laughter, which is both sexy and off-putting. “Down boy. My family’s full of civilians.”  
  
Kendall nips at her neck, trying to cut the snickers off at the source. Except her neck leads a tantalizing path downwards, and before he knows it, his teeth are grazing the curve of her left breast. His fingers tangle in the belt of her trench coat.  
  
Eyes flicking up in askance, Kendal waits for Camille’s okay.  
  
She nods, breathlessly, watching him with hungry eyes. He doesn’t rush, stripping her of her coat and the little that lies beneath it. Her lacy bra falls to the floor. Kendall is lost to the softness of her breasts. At some point he manages to pull of her wig, her long curls spilling out beneath it, over her shoulders, perfuming the path of his tongue around her aureoles. He sucks her nipples into his mouth, rewarded with the arch of her hips against his, the awkward curve of his back well worth the pain. He’s aching hard and wanting.  
  
It’s only when Camille begins fingering open his jeans that Kendall flounders, because he didn’t go into today looking to get laid. But that’s okay; Camille has an emergency stash of everything in that magic space where she hides Gone With the Wind costumes and spare spy trench coats. She gives him a three minute lecture on preparedness that involves a very stern face as his jeans and boxers ride down his thighs before going, “Fuck it,” and working the condom onto his dick. Which is a total relief, because Kendall was entirely too occupied staring at the slope of her breasts to concentrate on becoming a Boy Scout right then.  
  
Her hands are small; they make him feel big. Cold latex not so much, but Camille twists her palms across him, teasing his cock against the glossy crosshatch of short, soft hair nestled between her thighs. She sends electricity spiking down to his feet, arcing up his ribcage and fizzing out what’s left of his coherence. Kendall braces himself against the metal shelving in the janitor’s closet, shifting her weight while she circles the crown of him across her clit and back.  
  
The sudden press of wet heat compels him to kiss her with a filthy, slick slide of his lips. The alternative is surging forward, and he doesn’t want to ruin this with impatient hips, even when every inch of his attention is currently zeroed in directly on the sweet, feverish warmth cresting his dick.  
  
Camille kisses back recklessly, tonguing into his mouth until both of them are gasping for oxygen. She breaks away to pin him with her honey-caramel eyes. She says, “If you’re waiting for an invitation, this is it.”  
  
The bossiness of her voice is edged with ragged need. Kendall’s muscles go molten. He’s worried he might drop her, but it doesn’t keep him from fucking his hips up obediently.  
  
Camille folds into him with a breathy moan, digging her heel into his ass, wending her fingertips into the short hairs at the back of his neck.  
She is impossible, blindingly good, so insanely right around him that Kendall momentarily short-circuits. He has to talk himself into a slow withdraw, Camille prodding him along with quick tugs to his hair and panted encouragement of, “Move, move, move.”  
  
When Kendall snaps forwards, her thin shoulder blades rock the metal shelving. The rattle of cleaning equipment provides a soundtrack interspersed with the wet squelch of skin. Kendall drives forward, mouthing against her cheek, murmuring endearments he can never keep to himself during sex. He tells her how beautiful she is, how hard she makes him, how amazing she feels, rasping it hot against her skin while she wrecks him.  
  
Camille in turn is not quiet. She punctuates the saccharine noises he forces from her lungs with dirty words and desperate pleas of _harder_ and _faster_ and _now_. Kendall can feel her contract, silky and pulsing wet every time he hits her right. Her hair curls with sweat, her lips plump red. They’re his to kiss, so he does, tonguing arrhythmically into her mouth with his tongue while he pumps slow and deep inside her.  
  
He urges her legs further apart until his balls slap light against her ass and his vision has tunneled down to her. Camille becomes all that exists. He is fascinated by the flush creeping up her neck, the blush of her cheekbones, the muscles of her stomach. He likes the dig of her fingernails and the blackness of her pupils. The way her mouth latches on to his and she breathes his exhalations, his grunts and his moans.  
She takes it when he slides deeper, opens up for him hot and wet.  
  
She gets tighter when she’s close, quaking with pleased little shivers.  
  
Kendall whispers, “Come,” hot in the shell of her ear, brushes the lobe with his lips and then watches as she falls apart. Camille clings to him as she loses it, too close, too much, her mouth sobbing bliss into his throat. His own orgasm takes him by surprise, a wave that sweeps from his toes up his spine, until all he can see are stars as it crashes down around him.

\---

  
They stumble from the janitor’s closet bedraggled and unkempt, beaming from ear to ear. If Logan found them now, he’d know exactly what went down.  
  
Only Logan, it turns out, does not need to be trapped or distracted. He’s otherwise occupied on the couch of 2J, but not in a way that Kendall or Camille would’ve ever predicted.  
  
Or at least, Kendall wouldn’t have. Seeing him with his tongue jabbed down James’s throat isn’t an image that’s ever crossed his mind.  
  
“What. The. Fuck?” He intones.  
  
James lifts his head, completely unashamed. He says, “What? You guys were playing dress up. Without me.”  
  
“…he looks pretty good in a fedora,” Camille whispers appreciatively, her gaze lingering somewhere south of the stupid hat that Kendall had abandoned. Stupid James and his stupid tight jeans.  
  
“I’d look better,” Kendall sulks.  
  
She cuts her eyes towards him, snorting. “Well now we’ll never know.”  
  
“We weren’t playing dress up,” Kendall tells James. “We were scheming.”  
  
“Really? Because it looks like you were fucking,” he replies flatly.  
  
Kendall pales. Camille smirks.  
  
“Isn’t that against the bro-code?” Logan whines, glancing frantically back and forth between them, still pinned beneath James.  
  
“I didn’t date her, Logan.” Kendall sighs wearily, because Camille is radiating amusement at his side, and somebody has to be the adult here.  
Even if he’s a really, incredibly embarrassed adult with dried cum crusting the inside flap of his jeans. “Besides, I’m pretty sure hooking up with James breaks at least one of the codes.”  
  
James licks his lips. “Don’t be jealous. There’s enough of me to go around.”  
  
“I’m not jealous, you douchebag.” Kendall crosses his arms and tries to sew James’s mouth shut with his eyes alone.  
  
It does not work. This is very unfortunate.  
  
“You totally are. It’s okay. I’m a hotass.”  
  
Helpfully, Camille tells Kendall, “His ass is pretty hot.”  
  
“I hate you all,” Kendall says. Nobody appears to be particularly hurt by this declaration. He tries, “Also, would someone please explain to me why Carlos ran past us in the hall, carrying all our extension cords?”  
  
Logan slaps a hand over his own eyes and mutters, “Please don’t tell me Carlos is going to electrocute himself. Again.”  
  
He makes a noise like a dying walrus when James shoves him off the couch, jumping to his feet with a declaration of, “I need to find light bulbs!”  
  
“What,” Kendall says, trying to fight a tide of rising panic. His friends and household items never herald good things.  
  
James whistles innocently, all the while rushing out of the apartment. To go after him or not? That is the question.  
  
While Kendall’s pondering, Logan turns to Camille and tells her, “You know, you still make a really sexy spy.”  
  
She throws up a happy grin and says, “Thank you, darling,” in a terrible accent. Logan barely notices the way she’s following in James’s footsteps until she’s out the door.  
  
He glances up at Kendall, disheveled from James. He says, “You get a pass. Just this once.” And then he’s up and chasing after his ex-or-not-ex, who Kendall had sex with while he was trying to get with James.  
  
Kendall stands in the dust of his friends’ paths, wondering what the fuck he’s actually doing with his life. He could track down James and  
Carlos, or save Camille, but yeah, no. He’s had enough of hijinks. He’s going to end this day the way he started it.  
  
He’s going to teach the new girl he can rock.


End file.
